


When In Rome

by MaggieMay



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: And Fingers, F/M, From Russia With Love - Freeform, Maybe Canon Compliant Ish?, Missing Scene, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, PWP, Porn, Porn without plot / plot what plot, Tact Is A Subject Lost On Napoleon Solo, The Author Has No Excuse, The Occasional C Bomb, also language, cunnilngus, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 21:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10396683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieMay/pseuds/MaggieMay
Summary: “You have to be quiet.” It’s an order. It’s a small miracle Solo hasn’t already come knocking, and they will give him no reason to. “Quiet as church mouse. Yes?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written shortly after I saw the film, back in 2015, but has only just made its way, kicking and screaming, into online territory. I'm not even totally convinced it's GOOD; it's just porn. But it has to go somewhere.
> 
> I am capable of writing something other than smut, I promise. 
> 
> With thanks to K, who was around when this was written, and who knows to wipe my hard drive and orphan this account in the event of my death.

In the end, it was all far too simple. 

Illya is a staunch believer in prior planning; he’s also a staunch believer in there being no such thing as an easy way out. Nothing is easy when done correctly, done to the standard of both his reputation and his training. He moves deliberately, in a fighting stance that keeps his arms close to his body and his head in the game. Illya would not know a honey pot if it hit him in the ‘nads, because sex is distraction, and distraction is… problematic. 

The problem, as it turns out, is tied up quite succinctly in one Gaby Teller. Specifically in the thigh of one Gaby Teller, trembling minutely under his hand as he affixes the tracker, and turns the dial until it clicks to red and working correctly. Good. That is the job done, and now he can remove his hand. 

Now… he can remove his hand. 

The American is missing, brooding on the balcony somewhere, contemplating their looming assignment with what has to be a scotch in-hand, and Illya would have something to say about professionalism, if his own hand wasn’t sitting somewhere equally intoxicating. 

Gaby has made no effort to shake free. The seconds are dragging like dead air, piling up around them as he looks up at her, and isn’t that a novelty? The table has given her new height, and as if Illya’s opinion was not already elevated enough, now it seems truly symbolic. He can see the full, delicate length of her from this angle, and conclude that even – perhaps especially – from below, she is a marvel. There’s no part of him that he doesn’t wish could touch her; no part of her he has not thought of touching, and the fantasy is hampered only by his honour. He’s not the idiot he would have to be to believe Gaby wants him any less than he wants her. He is not so blind as Solo might think, not so naïve that he has never experienced desire, or known when it is reciprocated. There is a sizzling energy pent up between them, spurred by the near-misses and close quarters, the ratchet that has wound tighter and tighter by the day, until he could simply decide to let it break. 

It is the same energy that keeps his hand on her leg; the same that has him bring the second to join it. 

Still, she offers no sign that she wants him off. Illya holds her gaze a moment, and then lowers it to her skirt, the beautiful legs and soft skin protruding and resting against his palms. His hands are rough from the years of graft it took to turn them into the keenest weapons he has at his disposal She is soft, and hard, in the best way, and it’s a way that leaves him hungry. He wants to squeeze; instead, he strokes – one long motion travelling the length of her thigh as his right hand slips beneath. He has to duck, bringing his hand lower so he can palm the back of her knee. Like the careful clicking of clockwork, in a motion so deliberate that he himself might have envied her poise, Gaby brings her foot to a slow point, and in doing so, pushes the arch of her thigh into his grip. 

His fingers curl around the back of her knee. It is long seconds before he puts his lips to the same spot. 

Almost immediately, she is tense. He makes to pull back, and then there is her little hand in his hair, and if there was any doubt of her strength, her conviction or her desire for him, it’s been and gone. 

“Again.” Her voice is soft, but insistent; against the honeyed curve of her knee, Illya’s lips twitch into an involuntary half-smile. He blows an amused huff of air through his nose, one that he ends up repeating several times when he feels Gaby reacting. But he has his orders, and his lips go back to her knee, glancing up between kisses for the sheer indulgence. The line crackles between them, and Illya is only human – he responds to reinforcement, and perhaps due to his training, more so than the average man.

His lips find the line of Gaby’s thigh next, pushing both palms upwards as he presses chaste, close-mouth kisses where his hands have brushed. He notices, and thoroughly enjoys, the way her foot curls inside her shoe, and wonders briefly what it might say about him if he were to express a desire to make her legs buckle entirely. The chop-shop girl, who ensnared an assassin and made a dancer of him in an Italian hotel room. There’s only one direction in which he’d relish watching her fall, and the bearings relate somewhat to wherever he might position his mouth. 

The next time his lips find her, the kiss holds no hint of anything ‘chaste’. He’s impatient, hungry for her, and it shows, audibly as well as viscerally, for he huffs out a wanting noise as he draws her nearer, lapping circles against her thigh with a willing tongue. 

“Yes.” The word sounds desperate on her lips, breathed out with a sibilant ‘S’ that trails only for as long as it takes her to gasp in another breath. 

“Like this?” It’s the first time he’s spoken, and he speaks against her skin, trailing tongue and whispers and teeth to the inner curve of her thigh. 

“Illya…” Her legs part for him, and there’s nothing submissive in the gesture, not when the hand in his hair is gripping tighter, steering harder as she positions his mouth. He knows, God, he knows where she wants it because he’s going half-mad to know what she tastes like. It’s a process of control, of taking control back of himself and banishing the urge to rush it. He’s foolish, perhaps; Solo is just outside, and they’ve been quiet so far. There is no way for him to know what is building, nothing to keep him from entering and destroying the moment. The danger of it has heat licking up his spine and between his legs; has him push further between Gaby’s and bring his right hand to stroke down the curve of her buttocks, tilting her hips so she is pressed tight against him. 

Her breathing is labouring above him, and Illya grunts his pleasure as he feels the tension trembling down her leg. He nips at the soft flesh of her inner thigh, pleased when she lets out an audible gasp and her grip tightens. He laves the spot apologetically with a full tongue, following where she steers him. His hand has been petting her behind over the plump orange bustle of her skirt; it slides under the fabric now, never once lifting or disrupting the hang of the dress, but simply inserting himself beneath. His fingers brush the cool edge of silk, and he swallows, somewhat harder than he’s used to. 

His lips stay busy; his fingers tease the edge of her underwear until it becomes less than practical to continue the journey of kisses along her thigh without his head vanishing entirely beyond the confines of her sundress. He’ll commit to that when the time comes, but for now remains the unfamiliar, playful urge to tease. He wishes, he realises, to draw her out, and that will take time. 

He pulls back, and her grip instantly tightens. “Don’t –“ 

The word is enough to give him pause, but before the question of consent can send him into a blind panic, she seems to gather her wits and finish the thought, punched out in sharp, tight syllables: “ – you dare… stop.” 

Somewhere, inexplicably, a levee breaks. 

He is under her skirt with a purpose, and her hand follows him, less of a steerage now and more of an anchor. He can feel the fragility in her now, in perfect balance with the compact strength of her hand and spirit. She will take what she wants, and Illya will not be shy about giving it to her. He wonders if he could deny her anything if he tried; the way she sounds and the way she smells, especially beneath her dress, he doubts he could even attempt it. 

He noses at the heat of her, indulges in a deep breath, which he blows out over the front of her underwear, just for the thrill of feeling her shudder. His thumb has found the edge of the silk as it cuts up and back between her legs, framing her cunt.   
His thumbnail scrapes carefully, and Gaby is quiet no longer. He withdraws his head, fighting her grip as he looks up at her again. God, she is a picture; cheeks flushed, eyes ablaze, lips moist where she’s been biting down around her desire for him as he teases. 

“You have to be quiet.” It’s an order. It’s a small miracle Solo hasn’t already come knocking, and they will give him no reason to. “Quiet as church mouse. Yes?” 

“Yes.” Her grip has not let up, and it’s clear she would like nothing better than to push him back down. Instead, she gathers him up, and then his lips are on hers and she’s stooping low on the table to bite down on his bottom lip. Then there are ten fingers against his scalp, and she pulls back with a purpose, holding his gaze as she pushes, decisively, downwards. 

He is growing drunk on the scent of her, the way she feels as he lifts her underwear aside and strokes an index finger along the edge of her cunt, feeling the wetness that’s gathered there. Above him, Gaby’s breath is catching in her throat. It must be quite overwhelming, the need to stay silent; Illya himself wants to groan, deep into the silk and scent of this woman as he takes her apart on his fingers or rubs against his tongue. 

He kisses her then, opening his mouth against the most sensitive part of her and stroking with his tongue against the silk as her clitoris swells beneath the material. His finger, grown tired of teasing, slides her underwear aside and pushes up inside. He strokes gently, inside and out, and Gaby is shuddering above him with desperate fingers that catch and claw at his hair in lieu of crying out her pleasure, so beautifully-so that Illya has little choice but to dispose of her underwear. Her thighs shift, helping him bear the material down off her hips to pool about her ankles. He licks up into her then, removing the slick finger and thumbing her clit while he laps at her from further back, groaning against the heat and wetness he finds there. 

They are gathering momentum. Gaby has abandoned her vow of silence, but Illya… Illya is too far gone himself to chastise. He has two fingers stroking up into her cunt, lips sealed around her clit, and when she gasps out a warning – a wrecked, pleading invocation of his name – he cannot help but suck. 

Gaby flies apart with a shudder that wracks her whole body, inside and out, and although her back arches and she clutches at him like a woman half-drowned, she does not make a sound. He works her through it with long, slow strokes of his tongue, letting up only when the trembling hands in his hair seem to push now rather than pull, and he lifts his head from her skirts to release the breath it feels like he’s been holding the entire time. 

They watch each other as her breath slows. 

The next steps are perfunctory. She shimmies her underwear back up under the dress, so off-the-cuff that Illya wants suddenly to laugh. His hair is not irreparable; the evidence of his own arousal is harder to quash. Her gaze lingers there a while, and he aches for her hand or mouth, but there is no time. 

His lips are still wet with her; very deliberately, she puts out a thumb and wipes him clean. He cannot help himself – he catches the thumb and kisses, a snatching motion in what he can now sense are their final moments. 

“Little chop-shop girl…” 

He was right to be cautious; the American has reappeared. He looks between them both with the feigned innocence perfected only by those whose hearts are anything but. 

“All turned on now?”


End file.
